Hostile Conversation

Names have been changed to protect the identities of described persons.

Starbucks is, admittedly, a poor place to rekindle any romance. I love it as much as the next caffeine deprived person, but it isn’t the ideal place to re-ignite the flame that a 30-year marriage can apparently put out.

But here they are. Tim, sitting barrel chested with a silver crew cut, and Betty, a Martha Stewart-esque portrayal of a woman in her fashion but not her build — they sit awkwardly opposite one another at the same small table Mike and Jennifer sat at. They got here a few minutes after I did, ordered quickly and sat quietly. For the first ten minutes there was almost no conversation, the two of them just scrolled through their iPhones (she was up to date with an iPhone 5, he was falling behind with an older iPhone 3G). The two of them face the Subway across the street. He sits on the right side of the table, she on the left. Her phone beeps and she smiles, thus initiating the first of a few awkward conversations.

“What’s that?” he asks her.
“Nothing, just something a friend sent me.”
“Which friend? Natalie?”
“Nope, you don’t know…” she starts, seemingly distracted by her phone again, “…her.”

He nods his head and continues scrolling, and has yet to even take a sip from his drink. A venti-something-or-another, I assume it’s hot because it comes in a tall white cup as opposed to a clear one. Betty places her phone into her purse and grabs her…what is that, a caramel frappuccino? Let’s call it that. She sips her frappuccino and stares blankly towards the Ross across the road.

“I should go to Ross tomorrow — see if they have any luggage.”
“Why do you need luggage?” prods Tim.
“I told you, work is sending me to Indiana next month for a conference.”
He grunts, “I must have forgotten.”

Tim’s phone goes off. His ringtone, oddly, is Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin'”, which is loud enough to cause myself and the group of what appear to be Muslim men to stare directly at him. Come on, Tim, don’t you know Starbucks doubles as a library?

“Hey man,” he starts, “No, no, I’m just sitting here.”

The phrase “just sitting here” causes his wife to look at him and sigh before taking another sip of her drink (Tim has still yet to even touch his). I feel like Betty wants something more than her frappuccino, though, perhaps wine. Perhaps a large fishbowl of wine, maybe a margarita. She seems desperate for contact, but more than just simple conversation…like she wants to laugh. She hasn’t even noticed that Tim’s removed himself from his seat to walk over to their car and talk, pacing back and forth, throwing his hands in front of him like he’s talking to someone who is actually in front of him. He returns about five minutes later with a reddened face.

“What’s wrong?” his wife asks.
“Huh? Oh, nothing, we just have to get rid of a few people.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t ask.”

Tim finally puts his phone away and, at long last, takes a sip of his drink. He looks at it, puzzled, and puts it back down. It’s the only time he’ll touch it all night, and he leaves it on the table when they leave.

“What’d you do today?” Tim asks his wife.
“I was off today.”
“I know, but what’d you do?”
“I had another man over and had my way with him.” she jokes, but Tim just stares at her blankly.
“And I fucked my secretary. What’d you actually do?”
“I talked to Marcia [their daughter] and I went grocery shopping, Tim, I know you wanted salami so I got some.”

Betty appeared to be joking, but now I see why Tim was so persistent in finding out who made her laugh earlier. Maybe there was some infidelity in their marriage, but on whose side? Did Tim actually fuck his secretary? Their banter went on for another ten minutes, talking about different work related things (Betty works for a pharmaceutical company, Tim works for an aviation company), before finally leaving.

Betty and I lock eye contact while she struts behind Tim, and I swear I saw the slyest smirk form on her face.

‘Round They Go

A mother and a father begin their day by jogging around the neighborhood with a stroller that contains their infant. It’s early in the morning and already the swampy heat is drowning out any possibility of a cool breeze.

The two of them are probably in their early forties, late thirties perhaps.

He’s tall, 6′-even at least, with a head full of grey that seems to be fighting a losing battle against its own hairline. He wears black frame glasses — not thick ones though, they’re sleek and stylish. His feet run their pace in white and blue running shoes and low cut white socks. Tan legs that mismatch his paper white arms are themselves covered in navy blue basketball shorts.

She’s shorter than him by a longshot, she jogs along pushing the stroller in front of her. Her hair, long and dark, is held up in a ponytail and capped off by a purple visor. She is neither morbidly pale nor overly tan, rather a fair medium on the spectrum. She’s wearing a grey sleeveless shirt, black leggings, and hot pink Nike running shoes. She wears an armband containing her iPhone, which has sprouted two long white wires that lead up to her ears.

He runs ahead of her with a short stride, his hands curl into fists and his arms bounce up and down as he goes. He struggles to maintain a steady pace while his partner flows. She’s fluid in her stride; arms extended in front of her, pushing the stroller along, her ponytail bobbing up and down, left to right. I think they’re running to get back into shape — moreover, I think she’s running to get back into shape and he’s running with her. He’s supportive, though if anyone in this relationship needs exercise it’s him.

But if we’re talking about all parties involved, perhaps it is myself that needs the exercise…I could definitely use some as well.

The run laps around the block. Two times, three times, four — I think I end up counting at least six before they disappear. On their final lap he seems to struggle even more. His right hand clutches the left side of his abdomen, so I assume he’s cramping up. Even from my location, I can see beads of sweat drip from his forehead. He breaks, taking a moment to gather his breath and clear off his lenses with his t-shirt. His pale face turned red from utter exhaustion.

His wife jogs by, bending down by the stroller to point and wave at her husband. She continues on while he gets relief, but she turns her head back to say something and I see him laugh. In my head I play off a quip she makes about her giving birth and still being able to outrun him.

He regains his balance, standing back up and starting a slow, sloppy jog. That’s the last I see of the pair.

The Blind Date

Names have been changed to protect the identities of described persons.

It doesn’t seem to be going well, at least not starting out. Two military members — one in uniform, one returning from what appears to be PT — sitting approximately ten feet from me at a small circular table, one that is probably too small for a first date. The table pushes them together and forces interaction, something he is stumbling with.

Mike is balding. What little hair he has is shaved down to the skin, blurring the border between shine and scruff. Navy colored basketball shorts that are, in my opinion, a size too small. White tube socks rise up to the middle of his calves, and his feet proudly display a silver pair of New Balance running shoes. Sweat stains dot his armpits — what caused them, the PT or the date, is unknown. I don’t see his face because he’s facing the direction I am, towards the grocery store across the street.

Her name is Jennifer. She is dressed in uniform, presumably because she just got off her shift. Unlike Mike, she appears to be confident in both voice and stature — her posture is straight, unlike his slouching. Her size-umpteenth boots dwarf his running shoes, though that’s to be expected with military wear. Where Mike stumbles in speech, she becomes vocal…though not overbearing, like she knows he’s nervous and is attempting to prop him up. Her hair is dirty blonde, held up in a loose bun that — as the day went on — probably became looser by the hour. Jennifer’s eyes are a caramel brown, though her eyelids and surrounding areas aren’t as sweet. Her job has taken a toll on her.

She comes to him first, cautiously asking if the man in sweaty workout garb is in fact Mike. Mike stands and awkwardly leans in for a hug. He is met, unfortunately, with only a handshake. For a few minutes, they retreat inside to order drinks. She pays for her own; a venti-something-or-another. His drink is less masculine, a venti “Very Berry Hibiscus” drink. He must like it, as it doesn’t last longer than a few minutes…that, or he’s just very, very thirsty. She makes fun of him for his “girly drink”.

Conversation is slow at first, and neither party asks the other what their respective jobs are. I figure it’s because she just got off work, and he just got off from doing employer-mandated working out. Both of them are middle-aged, though, so there are questions about family. “Daughters? Sons?” she asks. Mike sighs, shakes his head, and offers a simply “No.”

His turn. He questions if she’s from Virginia, and she is not. As it turns out, she was born in northern California. “I have family near there!” exclaims Mike, in the most animated statement he gives all night. “Really?”, she starts, “Where at?”

“Bakersfield!”

I hang my head in disappointment, and Jennifer’s eyes widen. A sorrowful “Awesome!” slips from her mouth. California, Mike must not remember, is a large state — and Bakersfield, he must have forgotten, is not in northern California.

Their awkward conversation carries on for the next half hour, covering topics like hobbies (Mike’s a fan of kayaking) and fears (Jennifer’s afraid of goats, I shit you not). Mike never fully gains a grasp on carrying a conversation, and Jennifer finally asks why he seems so nervous. “I was married for a long time, you know,” he begins, “and it just didn’t work out. It’s been awhile since I’ve done this.”

Jennifer doesn’t ask why, and simply nods her head. “Been there,” she says as a smirk forms slowly, “but we’re here now. So let’s do this.”

After eavesdropping on this date for an hour, I hear Mike laugh — actually laugh — for the first time.